History
by butchinthestreets
Summary: Skulduggery/Solomon and Valkyrie/Solomon oneshot. T for Language, Insinuation, heteroerotism and homoerotism. SolomonPOV.


Slouching against the plain wall that has been carelessly stripped of all its patterned accouterments, I wait with a patience that is perhaps exaggerated. After the countless decades spent in this pursuit, you would suppose me used to this, this endless round of attention for the next move in a game far larger than comprehensible to any one mind, and yet, alas, I am not.

Even as the secrets imparted to me, seeping through time to bring me news of the death that I revel in, give me a dizzyingly ecstatic rush of energy, it is by far insufficient to calm my heart at the mere prospect of meeting _him_ again. To be sure, charisma fades over the years, or so I have been informed, and there are many would find a skeleton distinctly unattractive, but the memories fill my head and adrenaline spikes my blood.

I am in what used to be a living room. The family that once laid claim to this house had been rich, and it was, long ago, quite a nice house. If you look, you can see the traces of fine ornamentation, scrabbled across the fireplace, edging the walls, even curving in a faintly preserved array around the scant few windows. These are cracked and filthy now, and yellowed with age, but, once upon a time, the glass was frosted and expensive, the wooden frames painstakingly formed.

I curse my inconsideration at leaving the front door open, for I have not heard the intruders until a moment past, whereupon the flooring had moaned somewhat miserably under their weight. A youngish girl, with large brown eyes and a fighting figure, steps in, clutching a black coat to herself. My eyes, accustomed to being in the dark since I can readily remember, pick out a hanging tag's delicate script. Bespoke Tailors, it reads, and I nearly allow a chuckle to escape my lips as I remember the proprietor, a man named Bespoke. A most amusing name, I have always thought.

She glances around the room briefly, and I quickly gauge that her sight is as agile as mine is not - that is to say, she is half blind in the shadowy cloak of the lady Night. Not even noticing me, she turns around, as if to leave. "That will never do," I muse under my breath, having long accepted that talking to oneself, while a sign of madness, is certainly understandable. "Best not let her leave."

With a supernatural speed, I rush to the door, blocking any possible escape. Allowing a cloud of the borrowed strength taken from this environ to surround me, I scrutinize her in a much closer manner.

She raises one clearly defined eyebrow, biting her lip in a sign of unconscious nervousness. Her skin is tanned in the manner of an athlete, and indeed, her muscles corroborate the assumption. Her cheeks tinge slightly with red and she seems to fully comprehend the oddly dark shade in the room. Her lips part, hesitantly, and she speaks with a rough, frightened tone.

"I'm with Skulduggery Pleasant."

Ah, what bitter agony. Any feelings of approval I may have harbored are dashed in a single instant, with that single revelation. The skeleton, the corruptor, the grim one that I cannot harvest. Agony indeed.

Needless to say, my face betrays none of this anguish. That would be most unseemly, and make me appear a fool to boot.

She steps towards me, curiosity now revealed in her eyes. Her cheekbones are high and fine, reminding me of depictions of the Ancients, and her face framed finely by a sheet of dark hair. There is a sort of modest beauty to her looks, I am compelled to admit, and shame and dread raise heavy in my heart.

I can see myself, reflected in her every movement. She shrinks in apprehension, nearly unconsciously, from this tall specter in elegantly tailored black suit, so close to her mentor's, with blackest hair and shiningly bright eyes, with the grim pallor of a corpse and the relaxed stance of a professional about to attack.

As if proving something to herself, her chin lifts slightly and she speaks, her voice a mockery of a firm, steady accent.

"Are you Solomon Wreath?" Her mouth curls slightly around the exotic syllables of my name and I near laugh at the way she pronounces it, with slight distaste. Why, the last time a young lady had had quite that expression whilst speaking to me was when my sweetheart rejected my proposal.

"I am," I acknowledge with a quirk of my head, "I've heard about you," I continue. "You helped take down Nefarian Serpine and Baron Vengeous. You stopped the Grotesquery. Such talent. Such potential. Has he corrupted you yet?"

"I'm sorry?" she murmurs, head tilting in confusion.

With an inward grin, I elaborate. "He corrupts everyone he meets. Have you noticed that? Have you noticed how much you're changing, just by being around him?"

"I'm not sure what you mean," she parries. Her eyes contradict her, showing off a cold understanding of my exact intention.

"You will," I promise brightly. With that, I spin around magnificently, twisting the aura of power back around my cane. I pad softly to the center of the old, mildewed floorboards and start to speak, to test her.

Perhaps, just perhaps, this time the influence could be broken. I try not to think of my motives for even attempting this near-impossibility.

"This house has had a rather bland life. It was built and people lived here. They ate here and slept here. They grew old. Someone, an elderly man, passed away peacefully in the bedroom, a little over ten years ago. A very, _very_ ordinary house.

"Until two years ago. You may remember this from the news, actually. Four people were murdered- three were shot; one was stabbed. Two people died _here_, in this room. The third was killed in the kitchen. The fourth in the hall, within arm's reach of the front door."

She studies my face, as if divining my intent. With a slight shrug of her shoulders, she asks, voice a-quiver, "Who killed them?"

I have to laugh at that, throwing back my head and truly appreciating the humor in that simple question.

"Ah, you think this is all a preamble to announcing that _I'm_ the killer? I'm afraid not. I'm fairly certain that the police caught him and put him in jail. But violent death lingers in a place."

For effect, I pause. Allowing my suddenly heavy eyelids to slide shut, I draw in my breath smoothly.

"A murder can imprint itself on the walls. You can taste it, if you try. You can drink it in." Balderdash. Impressively good-sounding balderdash.

She steps away, eyes reflecting the products of a vivid imagination. Conquering the urge to grin like a Cheshire cat, I open my eyes, allowing them to catch the light. Giving her a very direct look, I break the scant moments of silence.

"My apologies. For our first meeting, I should have chosen a more civilized spot."

It is at that moment that Skulduggery chooses to walk in. Oh yes, he is still the same Skulduggery, but the flowing torrent of passion has waned, somehow. For a moment I rejoice at this, but my sudden elation is dashed down by the realization of where it has transferred itself. That, plus the fact that my heart still skips a beat at his appearance.

"Don't feel too bad," he says, blunt as ever, "Valkyrie is my partner. You can treat her like you'd treat me."

"That's a shame," I say, settling into our old routine of sharp repartee, "I actually liked her." An inward twinge accompanies the acknowledgement of the lie implicit in the past tense.

"What do you want, Solomon? Our time is precious."

What do I want? A most interesting query. You, for one, and the lovely miss Cain, for another. "All time is precious, but you'll want to hear what I have to say nonetheless. Or maybe you would rather I go to Remus Crux with this? I hear he's running all over town, desperate for something with which to impress the Grand Mage."

I shake my head, a sneer touching my lips. Remus Crux is a bumbling good for naught.

I continue. "His actions are deplorable. As one detective to another, Crux is a man who values a progress report over actual progress." I really doubt truer words have ever been spoken, and a glint in Valkyrie's eyes makes me think she agrees.

"If you're hoping we can bond because we share a distaste for the man, you will be disappointed." That wasn't exactly the reason I had in mind, but sure, you can say it that way.

"That's not all we share, actually. We have a common enemy." And a past, and a deep, burning passion… Or was that just me?

"Is that so?"

"Your investigation into the Teleporter murders, however unofficial it may be, coincides with an investigation I have been running for the past few years, into the Diablerie."

His silence screams the words he doesn't say for a few seconds before he turns to his partner. "The Diablerie was a group of the sickest fanatics Mevolent had at his disposal. A group that China founded and led."

Very smooth, Skulduggery. Twist the truth to suit your purposes, like you always have.

"China?"

I see the flaw now. Lovely as she may be, Valkyrie Cain is also _stupid_.

"She had a misspent youth," I explain with a lighthearted smile. Oh yes, that she did.

Skulduggery shifts his head, making the fact that he dislikes my words as obvious as he can. A childish trait that he still hasn't grown out of, it seems.

"When China left and became, to use her own word, _neutral_, Baron Vengeous took over, but it's been a hundred and twenty years since they've been considered a real threat."

Dishonesty, Skulduggery? Blatant falsehood? You know as well as I how dangerous they've always been.

"All that's about to change." I smile, knowing full well the impact my next words will not have, as much as they should. "Jaron Gallow, Murder Rose and Gruesome Krav reunited two years ago. I have found evidence that they have since hired Billy-Ray Sanguine, to add to their ranks. The Diablerie are back, _Detective_, and they are killing Teleporters."

I nod, emphasizing that last statement with as much vehemence as I can be bothered to muster.

"And Batu? What do you know of him?"

Ah. He hasn't lost his gullibility. "I suspect Batu doesn't even _exist_. It's a name taken to divert attention. The real leader is Jaron Gallow. He just _pretends_ to answer to a mysterious master. He's been at it for years- it keeps everyone off balance." Obviously.

"That still doesn't make any sense," the girl says, large eyes blinking with confusion. "Batu, or whoever was using that name, killed Trope Kessel _after_ he found out how to bring back the Faceless Ones. But since they need a Teleporter to open the gate, why kill them all?"

… _Oh_. They need a Teleporter?

"They need a Teleporter? How many?"

"Just one."

"And how many Teleporters are there left?" I smile inwardly at their obvious lack of comprehension.

"Two. Emmett Peregrine and one more. We're not going to be sharing either his name or his location to you, so don't bother asking."

Um. _What_? They're _this_ oblivious? I frown. "You obviously haven't heard. Peregrine is dead. He was murdered an hour ago."

Cain looks stricken. "What about Tanith?"

"Who?"

"The girl who was with him," Skulduggery cuts in, probably worried as well.

"Ah, the English girl. I don't know all the details, but from what I have heard, she was attacked by Krav and Murder Rose, and escaped with her life. Which is an admirable feat in itself."

Cain closes her eyes, and Skulduggery seems to relax. Amazingly, it seems that they actually care for her.

"Now," I continue, "If there _is_ only one Teleporter left, and since all the Teleporters I know are dead, then he must be new. Which makes sense."

"How does it make sense?" Cain asks. Skulduggery is silent for a brief moment, then he speaks.

"None of the seasoned Teleporters would cooperate with the Diablerie. They'd be too experienced, too powerful. The chances of escape would be much too high."

"But why kill them?" She's frowning slightly, a delightfully innocent frown.

"Because if the gate opens, they'd be able to close it. The Diablerie have taken out the biggest obstacles to their success before we even knew what was happening."

I take the opportunity to give my last words necessary, tired of the conversation. "Those in the Necromancer temples have taken an oath not to involve ourselves in the trivialities of your affairs. But there are those who share my view that the Diablerie's plans affect everyone, Necromancers included. You will have my help should you need it, Detective. Help from me and three others."

Skulduggery, ever charming, finishes his needed words with a cool "I don't trust you, Wreath."

Mentally rolling my eyes, I counter, "Of course not, but like I said, we have a common enemy. I think we should put our differences aside, don't you? For old times' sake, if nothing else?"

He moves, as if to hit me. Same old Skulduggery, I think fondly as I dodge then wipe a trace of imaginary blood from my lips. Valkyrie's eyes are widened, as if in shock. Ha, he hasn't shown her that side of himself yet.

"You certainly hit as hard as ever you did, and that's no mistake." To an outsider, that could be seen as admiration, but my voice holds a mocking cast.

His own voice carefully clear of emotion, he says, "Solomon, so glad to have you on board. Welcome to the team."

"A delight, _sir_, as always." The old title, once used in an entirely less indifferent manner.

He nods and leaves, with one furtive glance backwards. I wink at him, surely reminding him of what was once.

"What was _that_?" Cain asks, just as blunt as him.

"History."

That seems to describe it fairly well, don't you think?

* * *

**A/N: The subtext was just so tempting in the canon. I couldn't stay away...  
**

**~Mademise Morte, February 27, 2011.  
**


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